


Duet

by MostlyHubris



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Background Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Banter, Bardic rivalries, Characters talking in metaphor, Gratuitously handsome Valdo Marx, M/M, Minor depictions of violence against musical instruments, Smut that's also in metaphor, They're bards what do you expect, Wordplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:55:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23158150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MostlyHubris/pseuds/MostlyHubris
Summary: As they stop to tie Roach to the hitching rail, Jaskier focuses on the other bards playing. A violin then, and a tune a bit more courtly than the standard tavern fair, but he can work with that. Something in the flourishes and the glissando rings familiar. There is talent in it, certainly, but nothing that would appeal to the townsfolk. He smiles, realizing that will be his in. A jaunty tune on his lute, some bawdy lyrics, and with a little luck the violinist will be fiddling in no time and they'll both earn far more coin that they might separately.He walks through the door, lute in hand and ready to join in, and freezes.Fuck.Well that explains why he recognized the style.
Relationships: Jaskier | Dandelion/Valdo Marx
Comments: 12
Kudos: 98





	Duet

**Author's Note:**

> The companion piece to [this bit of art.](https://valdo-marx.tumblr.com/post/612337222885212160/fellas-is-it-gay-to-tilt-your-rivals-chin-up-with)

Jaskier hears the clear sound of music coming from the tavern, and frowns. He and Geralt had heard word on the road that there would be work for a bard up ahead, the townspeople in want of music and cheer. Apparently that cheer has already arrived. A room and meal will likely be more than the lightness of their purses will allow, but regardless, the evenings rain continues it's slow drizzle, and the price will be worth a dry night. He sighs, and hopes he can charm his way into a duet.

As they stop to tie Roach to the hitching rail, Jaskier focuses on the other bards playing. A violin then, and a tune a bit more courtly than the standard tavern fair, but he can work with that. Something in the flourishes and the glissando rings familiar. There is talent in it, certainly, but nothing that would appeal to the townsfolk. He smiles, realizing that will be his in. A jaunty tune on his lute, some bawdy lyrics, and with a little luck the violinist will be fiddling in no time and they'll both earn far more coin that they might separately. 

He walks through the door, lute in hand and ready to join in, and freezes.

Fuck.

Well that explains why he recognized the style.

Geralt bumps into him as he's standing halted in the doorway, “Jaskier?” He asks, placing a hand on his shoulder and following his gaze.

Weaving between the tables is a man, tall, willowy, and overdressed, as bards often find themselves. His light beard pillows across the chin rest of his violin and, with eyes closed, his hands shake a long vibrato that is hauntingly beautiful and terribly uninspiring to a crowd looking for lifted spirits. Of course, who else would have the presumption to bring such melancholy sounds and expect applause?

“ _Marx_.” He whispers and brushes away Geralt's hand as though that explains everything. He straightens his back, tenses his shoulders and strides into the tavern, repeating himself loudly.

“Marx.”

The music stops as the bard lowers his bow and violin, eyes bright and grinning as he turns towards them, audience ignored, but not forgotten. “Pankratz! What an unexpected pleasure,” he says, bowing deeply, “I've missed your sorry countenance!” He pauses, dragging his eyes up and down Jaskier, smile widening as he takes in the state of the new arrivals, “I must say, the 'freshly drowned cat' look is a brave choice to be sure, but I'd expect no less from you.” 

“Yes well, we can't all spend our time lavishing around courts, whiling away our lives while the world moves on outside. Then we'd all be plagued by inertia.” He turns to the barkeep, “I had heard you were in need of a bard, but I would not have arrived so leisurely had I known your situation was so dire.” He turns again with a flourish towards the crowd, “Fear not! For now that I am here I shall relieve you of this pompous troubadour, lest he curse you with an irreversible despondence.”

Valdo scoffs, “Perhaps I _have_ been too cloistered, for surely caterwauling strays are not what's in demand these days?”

“Caterwauling?!” Jaskier cries, storming across the tavern, “You say as though my mellifluous voice isn't in the greatest of demands at every important banquet, feast, and fest across the continent. As though I have not traveled, tavern to tavern bringing joyful melodies and leaving high spirits in my wake. As though Jaskier is not a household name. Perhaps your lacking success in music has lead you down the jester's path?”

Valdo jeers, before relaxing against a post with an air of indifference, and says, “I suppose that in times of drought, even the most stagnant water tastes sweet. And it's for such reason that I've traveled from court, in fact. To quench the thirst of the people with the crisp spring of my bow.” 

“I'd trust no spring with such a bitter, acrid stench,” Jaskier says in retort, eyes shining with delight, “But perhaps I can bring some purity to this tainted well.” He pulls forward his lute and strums a harsh chord, “That is, if you think you're up for the challenge?”

Valdo stalks towards him and, before Jaskier can think to move, he whips his bow through the air between them, the tip hooking under Jaskier's chin, “I see no challenge to be had, Julian, but perhaps we—”

A hand shoots out past Jaskier's shoulder and grips the bow tightly, hairs dangerously taut. Beside him, Geralt growls deeply and says, “It appears as though you've mistaken your bow for a weapon.” He pulls it roughly down and away from Jaskier's chin, “I can assure you it is not.” 

The room fills with silence. Geralt keeps his grip firm until Valdo steps back with sunken shoulders, cowed as the warmth of their repartee chills. The bard sneers at Jaskier, “I suppose I shouldn't be surprised, you mention leaving joy in your wake but if there's any truth to rumor, you've earned your fair share of scorn. It was only a matter of time before you had to find yourself a guard dog.”

He grabs his instrument and coin, and says to their audience, “My apologies, dear folk, for it seems as though yowling it shall be tonight. May your suffering this evening be brief and your recovery swift.”

Jaskier scoffs at his retreating form, “Come now, Marx, I'm sure it must be a lonely road when no companion can bear your presence for more than a night, much less your whole journey from Cidaris, but jealousy isn't becoming on.” 

Valdo turns briefly at the entryway, and their eyes locks for a final glare, filled with far more meaning than either intended, and then he disappears out into the night.

Later in the evening the tavern swells with raucous voices, singing and clapping along with their entertainment. From the corner of his eye, Jaskier spies a figure, soaked and sullen, slinking back into the only tavern in town and slipping up the stairs.

Bidding the last of the tavern goers a thanks and good evening, Jaskier climbs up to their rooms, walking right past his own and towards the end of the hall, following the faint sound of softly plucked strings. He knocks on the door and, without waiting for a response, lets himself in. 

Valdo stands in the sparse room, clothes still wet but no longer dripping. On the bed he's laid out his violin and bow, which he pokes and prods at silently, carefully assessing their state, fingertips sliding along the polished wood and catching gently on the strings. He pointedly does not turn to face his guest.

“I see interruptions are becoming a habit of yours.”

“I imagine you'd lock your door if you weren't expecting company.”

“I had no desire to subject myself to your incessant whining had I not left it open.” Still, he raises a hand and beckons Jaskier in with a quick flick of his fingers.

Jaskier scoffs, stepping into the room and latching the door behind him. “I see the freshly drowned cat look is catching on.”

“You've always been a trendsetter, who am I to resist?”

Striding over to the empty hearth, Jaskier busies himself getting a fire going, “Please, you've never been one to follow the fashionable wills. Now get out of those before you find yourself ill.”

“Always the charmer.” Valdo says, even as he begins peeling off his sogging layers, “Is the 'straight to business' attitude another new habit? I'm starting to think your witcher is a terrible influence.” He tosses the first articles of clothing towards Jaskier, who barely manages to dodge out of the way as they hit the mantle with a wet thud.

With the fireplace now alive and warm, he spreads wet clothes out across the hearth. His gaze creeps across the room and roams the other bards now bare skin, still slick from the rain, as he sheds the last of his clothing. “There are perks to taking the direct approach,” He murmurs. Their eyes meet, and Valdo grins cheekily at his shameless staring. He stretches and preens, gracefully leaning back against the end of the bed. Bards rarely express any modesty, even less when in the company of their own, and an audience of one still inspires a performance.

Jaskier crosses the room, eyes never leaving Valdo as he continues his act, languorously splaying himself across the bed, limbs twisting and torso bending slowly like a cat reveling in the sun. It would be rude not to watch. 

Jaskier picks up the violin and bow, loosening it as he examines the hairs, “I am sorry, about your bow that is.” He gives a short, breathy laugh, “I'm not so sure that Geralt understands. I think the games we play don't quite fit into the way witchers approach the world.” He places the instrument into it's case, and turns back towards the bed, “I ran into a gem of a luthier a couple towns over, should it need—” 

Valdo cuts him off with a scoff, “I know how to maintain my own instrument, Julian. I appreciate the concern but it's not necessary.” He twists onto his side and props himself up on one arm, his other roaming up and down his bare side, hand caressing skin in a way that Jaskier itches to repeat. “Now if you'd hurry yourself up and join me, perhaps I can give some attention to your own instrument before the sun rises.”

“You're impatient, for someone who was just lecturing me on forwardness.” He saunters over and falls gracelessly across Valdo's midsection, ignoring his indignant protests, and toes off his boots as he begins on the fastenings of his doublet.

“Gods above Julian, what does he feed you!” Valdo shoves him far enough to the side that he can wriggle his way out from under him, “I would think that spending your days crawling about in the woods to be less kind to your frame.”

Jaskier laughs, “I have to eat well enough, to keep walking across the continent while keeping up with a witcher. Really, it's done remarkable things to my calves.” 

Sidling up next to him, Valdo hums in application as feels his way across well defined muscles, “Speaking of, I'm not going to have to worry about your witcher barging in and throttling me mid-coitus, am I?”

Jaskier snorts, “He may not understand the whys of all this, but he understands the what. Quite well, in fact. We could ask him to join if you'd like? I think he would be agreeable.”

Valdo looks contemplative for a moment, intrigued, before pressing Jaskier off and rolling atop him. Straddling his hips, he leans down to catch Jaskier's lips with his own. Jaskier moans deeply into his mouth, hands flying to the bindings of his remaining clothes, urgently working to rid himself of them. Valdo cards his fingers through the hair at the nape of Jaskier's neck, coaxing soft noises from him.

Valdo kisses down the line of his jaw, “An interesting proposition.” he murmurs against his skin, “Another time, perhaps, but tonight I'm looking forward to having you to myself.” His hand slides down Jaskier's frame, calloused fingers trailing sensations along his chest. As they slip past the hem of his loosened trousers, Jaskier sings a long, sensuous note.

There are bards that people would travel far and wide to see perform, an achievement both Valdo and Jaskier can claim. The promise of a duet between the two could inspire a true aficionado to pack up and travel across the continent, eager for melodies so memorable they'd echo in their mind for the rest of their life. Both bards a flurry of movement as they wield their instruments with practiced precision, their voices, cantus firmus and counterpoint, coming together to a harmonious peak.

In the quiet hours of the night, long after most of the inn's patrons have left the commons for their own rooms, the audience is treated to a truly consummate performance. 

Geralt lies in his own bed, awake and listening to their melodious moaning. He absolutely does not understand.

**Author's Note:**

> Geralt, vividly recalling Jaskier's countless rants regarding the troubadour of Cidaris, and his _complete lack of hesitation_ when wishing him a painful death: ?????????  
>    
> I'm terribly inexperienced when it comes to writing, and this fic is unbeta'd, so constructive criticism and corrections are welcome!
> 
> Feel free to come chat with me on tumblr at [valdo-marx](https://valdo-marx.tumblr.com/)


End file.
